


For the Kill with the Skill to Survive

by vogue91



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Gen, Introspection, Sisters, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 03:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13825152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: Morgana knew that Morgause could’ve enchanted the stone herself, and that this was her test, that she should’ve shown she had learnt how to master the magic flowing through her veins since birth.





	For the Kill with the Skill to Survive

**Author's Note:**

> The spell I wrote is the same Morgause uses in episode 3x08 to bewitch the stone of the bracelet Morgana gives Arthur; I used this one because it seems fitting, I didn’t want to make something up, it wouldn’t have ended well xD

_“You can’t fail. Not this time. I trust you, sister.”_

Morgause’s words echoed in her mind, perennial, sharp.

Yet sweet, drenched in that familiarity that she had never known.

She had learned to relish in the trust others had in her.

Misguided Uther’s, Arthur’s, Gwen’s.

Impossible to betray, her sister’s.

Morgana had a task to accomplish, and she wouldn’t have let herself make any mistake.

It was going to be a merry Christmas for her.

For the first time.

She went to the corner of her room, where her sword laid abandoned. She took it, closing her eyes. She imagined the moment Uther would’ve taken it in his hands, when he would’ve contemplated it, enraptured. When he would’ve put it at his side, beginning his slow and mortal agony.

She put it on the table, conceding herself a gaze to its immense perfection.

The blade, long and sharp, almost seemed to shine in the darkness of her chambers.

The hilt, black like the recesses of her soul, was well-wrought, splendid, apparently pure. Yet, bearer of death.

She brushed her hand over the tiger’s eye there mounted, smiling openly. It would’ve been their weapon, what would’ve brought her sister and her to get what they had been waiting for a long time.

So small, that stone, yet so lethal. It recalled to her mind Morgause’s eyes when magic took over her, when her essence seemed to change and nothing could stop her.

It had to be the same colour into which her own eyes changed, she supposed.

How it would’ve happened shortly.

She rested a hand on the rock, feeling its magnetic power, and closed her eyes. She sighed one, two, three times before feeling ready for what she had to do.

“ _Gefultume ni thaet heo onslaepe._ ” she whispered, like she had seen her sister do. She waited, but nothing happened. The stone shined, but for its own nature, not because the spell had worked.

“ _Gefultume ni thaet heo onslaepe._ ” she repeated, in an effort once again vain.

She tried again and again, and each attempt brought rage and frustration in her.

She couldn’t fail her sister, she didn’t want to.

Morgana knew that Morgause could’ve enchanted the stone herself, and that this was her test, that she should’ve shown she had learnt how to master the magic flowing through her veins since birth.

She repeated the spell once again, louder, picturing Uther’s face in her mind.

Rage conveyed her power, transferring it to that apparently innocuous object.

That had nothing innocuous anymore.

The witch smiled again, managing to feel the magic drenching the sword.

She wasn’t going to fail.

She wasn’t going to disappoint her sister.

Camelot, soon, would’ve belonged to them.

 

~

 

Night had brought with it more than a torment.

Morgana was agitated, and more than once had woken up, convinced she wasn’t alone. She tried to convince herself she was just nervous, more than justifiable, and yet she couldn’t drive away completely the feeling of danger. Her senses were on edge, and she had a hard time falling back asleep.

 

The next day, she felt strangely serene.

No trouble of the previous night had left its sign on her. She was calm, determined, and ready to put her revenge in motion.

The morning went by quickly, and she found the patience to wait the moment of triumph with ease, continuing restless to make her mind fly to a rosier future, a future where Camelot wouldn’t be stained anymore by the poisonous presence of Uther.

When the time of supper came, she went to the throne room with a quick step, the sword tight in her hands.

She felt her own magic running through her veins, as if she was inevitably bound to that object, which destiny was so fundamental.

As was hers.

The tolerance shown during the morning for the slow passing of time didn’t appear while they were eating.

She was starting to get impatient, she wanted to see the charm take the form of an eulogy for the king of Camelot, for the man that had opposed, tortured, persecuted and killed those like her, over whom the most atrocious sins were weighing.

Who she would’ve eradicated from the world, like a root long since rotten.

When it came the moment to exchange gifts, she bore with the smiles and compliments, the fake ‘thanks’ for the gifts received from Arthur and Uther, unaware that for that Christmas, she had provided to give herself the best gift of all.

“This is for you. Merry Christmas.” she told the king handing out the sword, with a smile of pure bliss.

A bliss sincere, but deriving from something Uther would’ve never imagined. The man hugged her, almost moved.

“Thank you, Morgana. It’s beautiful.” he said, smiling himself. “I’ll be proud to make it my sword.” he added, as if she was a child to reassure.

 _And I’ll be happy to see you perish because of it_ she thought, accentuating the smile on her face.

She waited.

She waited to see signs of weakness in Uther, a veil of paleness on his face, drops of unexplainable sweat, the surrender of muscles under the weight of the body...

Instead, nothing happened.

Her breath grew shorter, unbelievably so. She bit her lips, to the point of drawing blood.

What had gone wrong?

Morgause had assured that the effect of the spell, if well executed, would’ve been quick.

And Uther instead was perfectly fine, he didn’t show any trouble nor anything.

The witch was frustrated. She had long desired that moment, the realization of her dream, the passing of Uther and the proud her sister would’ve shown her.

All things she saw slipping through her fingers, in a feeble and unavoidable way.

She got close to a window, to escape the king and Arthur’s gazes, trying not to show her troubled eyes.

Next to the very same window, Merlin leant against the wall, smiling.

Morgana threw him a look of pure and unadulterated despise, without him changing his expression.

“Something’s wrong?” the boy asked innocently, his voice low.

“I don’t see how it could be of any concern to you.” she hissed, annoyed. Merlin laughed briefly, catching the girl’s whole attention.

“You think?” he asked, allusive. He reached out a hand, closed in a fist, then he opened it slowly. At the centre of his palm, there was something shining. A shine that she didn’t miss.

“How... how did you...” she was breathless, she couldn’t react in any way to what she was seeing.

Merlin’s smile grew wider.

“Merry Christmas, Morgana.” he murmured, then got away.

The witch went to the doors, followed by the voice of the king calling her. She ignored it, just like she ignored the guards in front of her.

She didn’t want to pretend any longer, not anymore.

She couldn’t bear the fake smiles, the hugs that let her skin burning, the actions she was forced to make, swallowing her hatred, hiding the despise she felt for all that surrounded her.

And, more, she wouldn’t have been able to eclipse the rage for having disappointed Morgause one more time.

She went back to her chambers, closing the door violently behind her back.

She screamed, trying to free part of her frustration.

They would have paid for what they were doing to her. All of them.

And Merlin... that useless servant didn’t know who he was playing with.

Morgana felt suddenly stronger.

Her revenge was expanding its coverage, and becoming deeper.

And, together with it, Morgana let her power flow free in her, stirred up by her hate, by her ire.

She could be stronger.

And that strength of her would’ve annihilated whoever would’ve tried to meddle.

She looked at herself in the mirror, glimpsing an homicidal shine in her eyes.

“Merry Christmas, Morgana.” she said, sarcastic, mocking the boy.

It hadn’t been a merry Christmas.

But the game wasn’t over yet.


End file.
